EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. ROBERT BURNS. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, II. Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye: III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, But och, mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife V. Aye free aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, And petrifies the feeling! EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honor; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip Let that Its slightest touches, instant pause- Uncaring consequences. IX. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! X. When ranting round in Pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or, if she gie a random sting, 117 But when on life we 're tempest-driv❜n, XI. Adieu, dear amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting: May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, 'God send you speed,' Still daily to grow wiser; And may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser! DEPARTED JOYS. W. K. SPENSER. WHEN midnight o'er the moonless skies No sheeted ghost my couch annoys; THE NATIVITY. JOHN MILTON. Ir was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She wooes the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; |